


Pale For Weariness

by Letha



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Headcanon, Plot Bunny Request!, Pre-Canon, Sherlock's Violin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 00:46:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Letha/pseuds/Letha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“I hope you don't mind, how did you get that scar on your lip?”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>That simple question forces Sherlock to the past, with the help of his violin and the company of the moon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pale For Weariness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nichellen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nichellen/gifts).



> For the amazing [Nic](http://nichellen.tumblr.com/), who came up with the lovely plot bunny "So, just how did Sherlock get that scar on his lip?". I hope I did the prompt justice! ^_^
> 
> (For more Plot Bunnies, or if you have one in mind go [HERE](https://docs.google.com/spreadsheet/ccc?key=0AsDCTWu5yo-4dDhMVkljbnhZN2o1RFdQTXI5S0xfNUE#gid=0))
> 
> Special thanks to the amazing [Moony](http://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom) for her amazing and quick beta, to the guys in the #antidiogenes IRL who keep my writing going, and to Ara for talking about the moon with me. You, people, are incredible. ♥ Thanks for putting up with my nonsense on a daily basis these past few days.

_________

Art thou pale for weariness

    Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,

Wandering companionless

     Among the stars that have a different birth,

And ever changing, like a Joyless eye

    That finds no object worth its constancy?

**Percy Shelley, To The Moon**

_________

****  
  
The moonlight coming through the window makes the room sparkle in silver. Sherlock stands by the curtains, violin and bow in hand. Slowly, he lifts the latter to the metal strings of the instrument and begins to play a sorrowful melody. It is one of his personal compositions. One of his favourites, even.  
  
His bow moves gracefully over the silver strings as he lets his mind wander to years before, one night very much like the present one. Yet with one vital difference: he was not looking at the moon from a warm room in London that time. Instead, he was longing to be able to feel the moonlight bathe his skin from inside a cold dungeon.  
  
The moon has always been his silent, distant companion. And tonight is no different.  
  
As the song comes to an end, Sherlock's movements on his violin become slower, gentler. He finishes by dragging out one last, heartfelt note, and sighs. His silver eyes sparkle as he puts the instrument down and turns to look at his only audience: John. The man is staring at him, his eyes glazed. He is probably lost in some shallow thought, like he always is.  
  
He blinks a few times and compliments Sherlock's performance, as per usual, followed by one unexpected question.  
  
“I hope you don't mind, how did you get that scar on your lip?”  
  
Sherlock's smile falters. He spins around and looks at the moon again, ready to play another song.  
  
“It's ancient history. It is irrelevant now.”  
  
He begins to scrape the strings, another song forming thanks to the merging of notes and memories.  
  
As he plays, the dungeon begins to materialize around him. The window morphs, and now it has no glass, but bars. It's circular, surrounded by grey stone. The only light in the room comes from outside. The only noises are the ones provoked by the wind. The only person in the cell is himself.  
  
He is chained to the wall. He feels powerless, abused, hopeless. He wonders whether he will leave the hostile room alive, and decides chances are, this time he won't. He has to repress nervous laughter as one grim thought crosses his mind: _“Sherlock Holmes has finally succumbed.”_  
  
The music in 221B Baker Street becomes darker.  
  
Two men walk into the long corridor that leads to the dungeons. By their steps, Sherlock can deduce one of them is the General. He has a small, practically unnoticeable, limp (probably a bad fall a few years prior that wasn't properly healed at the time). He seems to be accompanied by some sort of officer–lower rank, for sure, since he is walking behind the general.  
  
The door to his cell opens, and Sherlock does not look up. If anything, it is the last rebellious resource he has. The uniformed men do not like that. They yell at him, try to force his head up, threaten him. But what has Sherlock got to lose? Nothing. Nothing at all. He is a lonely man, alone in the world. Therefore, he keeps his head down, his eyes closed when the men force his chin up.  
  
One of them–the General, by the size of the hand–grabs him by the neck. Eventually, in spite of his best efforts, Sherlock's eyes open in panic as he fails to inhale. The General seems pleased. His lips part, exposing perfectly aligned teeth that gleam in the night. He chuckles darkly and lets go of Sherlock's throat. He gasps for the air he had been deprived of a moment before and glares at both of his captors as they address him.  
  
The notes from his violin turn to lower-pitched ones. The frantic rhythm slows down some, yet not enough to consider it a change.  
  
The men ask questions he no longer remembers. He responds something that escapes his memory now as well. All he can recall is how displeased they looked when he replied.  
  
The lower-ranked man steps forward, producing a pocket knife. In its silver surface, Sherlock sees the reflection of the moon for a split second before it gets too close to his face, which makes it impossible for him to observe it any longer.  
  
The man yells in his face, yet Sherlock remains impassive, eventually flinching as some stray drop of spit hits his skin. He does not utter a word as the man brings his metal weapon closer to Sherlock's body. He feels the kiss of the blade on his skin and has to suppress a shiver. Now is not the time to show weakness, he thinks. But it is too late. The man has picked up on his reaction, and is now running the tip of his knife down Sherlock's cheek, around his chin, circling his mouth... That metal is everywhere; the pressure is enough for Sherlock to feel it, yet not to cut him. It is a sensation that would be repeated on his head time and again for years, and even more so when someone–anyone–dared to caress his face.  
  
The piece he is playing is now fast, the notes rising to a higher volume.  
  
The officer runs his knife across his full lips as though he were painting them. The caress of the blade too sensual and difficult to ignore. The man is smiling like a maniac, and Sherlock closes his eyes tightly again. He must admit he is–if not frightened–uneasy. The general resents that, and orders the lower-ranked man to make him open his eyes again.  
  
And that is when he feels it. The blade moves down in a fast motion, then up again. The tear of skin is audible. Sherlock yells out in pain and his eyes dart open. He can feel a throbbing sensation on his lower lip, as though his heart had moved there.  
  
Both men are cackling mischievously, rejoicing in the pain their prisoner is feeling. Sherlock’s breathing comes in harsh, fast puffs. His eyes have welled up on their own accord. He is afraid his lip will not be the last thing that blade cuts.  
  
The song comes to a stage in which it seems to be made of fear: fast changing, high pitched notes compose it. The tune becomes one of a terrified man.  
  
Sherlock can’t remember much of what happened afterwards in the dungeons. He remembers how afraid and helpless he felt, with the blade by his face again, tracing his skin, his neck. The officer makes it dance over his pulse, lick at the sensitive skin below his ear. He can feel the pressure of the knife, ready to cut if needed. He is one small metal object away from death and eternal abyss. His eyes look at the moon that stares down at him, the one astronomical body that accompanied through thick and thin, and he silently says goodbye to her. Sherlock closes his eyes.  
  
He hears a commotion. A rescue team breaks into the cell and free him. He is too weak to walk, or even to look at his rescuer. Everything fades to black.  
  
The next thing he remembers is waking up in a hospital bedroom, alone.  
  
The song finishes. He lowers his violin and puts it back in its case.  
  
“Maybe one day I’ll tell you the story,” he says over his shoulder, addressing John. “However, I’m afraid it would bore you.”  
  
He smirks sideways and lets his index and middle finger dance over his scar.

 


End file.
